


Chronic

by Samayla



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Chronic Migraines, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, migraines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayla/pseuds/Samayla
Summary: Five times no one knew Graves had a migraine + one time someone did





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the kink meme. Anon requested stoic Graves fighting to keep his chronic migraines hidden, until one day Newt finds out.

Graves’ first thought upon waking is that his head hurts.

After a moment or two, his second thought is that he probably imagined it.

He grabs a handful of ridiculous paper money for a No-Maj cab fare, just in case.

By the time he Apparates into the MACUSA lobby, a hot tangle of pain has taken up residence behind his left eye, and he knows it’s going to be a bad day. The echoing cracks of other witches and wizards arriving at work aren’t helping, so he makes a beeline for the quiet and privacy of his own office four levels up.

The dinging of the elevator as he approaches makes him want to vomit. Stairs it is.

Graves is no longer sure what his face is doing – the entire left side has begun to feel as though it’s been ravaged by a hippogriff – but whatever his expression is, it sends junior aurors scattering as he passes through his department. He’s dimly aware that the sudden flurry of shuffling papers and hastily-charmed memos aren’t actually accomplishing anything useful. He’s briefly annoyed, but within moments, he feels those thoughts sinking into the soupy, grey fog that is slowly enveloping his brain.

It’s going to be a very bad day.

His office door slams behind him of its own accord – likely his magic expressing sympathy with the general aggravation still drifting about the edges of his mind – and the sudden noise is like a knife to the face. His legs give out, and he lurches sideways into his desk, clutching at his head.

Graves allows himself one whole minute to kneel there on the floor and just feel the pain. He lets it wash through him, and as he silently counts the seconds out, he feels his heart slow its mad gallop. The sick throbbing in his face eases as well, and when the minute is up, Graves can force his eyes open.  He can breathe.

Standing, he sheds his coat, straightens his tie, and runs a hand over his hair.

He’s got work to do. He chokes down a vial of Swift & Quick’s Miraculous Migraine Mixture and just hopes it’s not too late. He casts a silencing charm on the clock on his desk, just in case, and briefly hates himself for thinking that phrase twice in one day. He buries himself in paperwork and tries not to think about it anymore.

He’s irritably charming away spilled ink an hour later, when there’s a soft knock at his door. “Come.”

Of course it’s Goldstein. Despite Picquery’s near-constant irritation with the newly-reinstated auror, she’s the only one with any real backbone around here. Under her arm as she holds the door ajar, he can see others peeking furtively in at him from their own desks. He rolls his eyes, then stops because it still hurts. “Mr. Graves, sir?”

“What is it, Goldstein?”

“We were just wondering, sir, if you’d cancelled the raid?”

Raid? Graves’ mind works to drag relevant thoughts up out of the fog. The No-Maj speakeasy. Spiked drinks. A bartender under the Imperius Curse. The briefing was scheduled for ten minutes ago. He glances at the clock, wondering why it didn’t notify him.

“I’ll be down in five,” he answers. “Bring everyone up to speed. We’re leaving in ten.”

Goldstein takes the change in plans in stride. “Yes, sir.”

Graves takes stock of himself as the door swings shut – nearly silent this time, bless Goldstein. In spite of the lingering fogginess, he feels almost like himself. Tired and sore, as though he’s been brawling, but almost like himself. He rearranges his face to something resembling cool and calm, forces the fatigue from his eyes, and wraps his coat around himself like armor.

Then he remembers silencing the clock.

Damn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is later than expected, everyone! This chapter gave me absolute fits!! I scrapped it completely twice, and I'm still not entirely sure I like it, but it's here.  
> Enjoy!

This is it. Four days of surveillance, twenty-seven pages of analysis, and two and a half hours of briefings, and this is it.

The Woolworth Building is quiet as they prepare to depart, the lobby empty but for half a dozen of Graves’ best Aurors, a handful of Obliviators, and Abernathy, fluttering about as inexplicably as always.

“Everyone ready?” Graves asks, slinging his coat around his shoulders and ignoring Abernathy as best he can. There's a chorus of affirmation. "Good. Goldstein, you and Abeling head out first. Check in with Johnston at the rendezvous point. We'll await your signal."

"Yes, sir," the two witches answer in unison. They disapparate, and everyone in the room seems to hold their breath. Graves hates this part, hates the waiting.

...forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine -- there it is, finally. A shower of green sparks falls in the center of the lobby. There's a collective exhale, and they're off.

-

"May I help you?" the building superintendent asks, freezing in the act of  hanging up his jacket behind the desk as the aurors enter the lobby.

Wilde flashes a No-Maj badge as the others spread out to cover the room. "Please Department -- we're here about a Mr. Thomas Reilly."

"He's in 7b," the super answers slowly, obviously suspicious. "An odd one, he is. You fellas be careful."

Wilde thanks the man, and they head for the stairs.

"All clear, Wilkinson?" Graves asks. He discreetly tags the superintendent for follow up, then scrubs his hands over his eyes. He must be more tired than he thought. Everything's just the slightest bit blurry.

Wilkinson, the last one out of the lobby, confirms that no one will see them, and they apparate in unison to the seventh floor landing.

There's the snick of a latch, and Mr. Reilly's elderly neighbor almost finds herself the unwitting recipient of half a dozen stunning jinxes. Graves makes a motion with his hand, and wands are hastily stowed, though the woman seems oblivious to their presence. She totters down the hall toward the landing at a glacial pace, muttering to herself about hooligans and cat food in turns. She stops short right in front of Graves and staggers sideways as if she might collapse. Graves catches her arm to steady her.

"Who're you?" she rasps, jerking away from him and clutching her housecoat to herself.

Graves nods at Goldstein as he sidesteps the old woman. "Police Department, ma'am," Goldstein explains as Graves and the others begin spreading out along the hall. "We're here about --"

"Police!" she exclaims, and is nearly jinxed again. "Well, it's about time!"

"Ma'am?"

"I called you a week ago! Strange noises all night, even when no one's home, a different girl every day, crashes and bangings and screaming..."

Goldstein begins herding the old woman down the stairs, murmuring reassurances, and Graves tags her for an interview as well. The Obliviators will scoop them up when they come in to clear the scene.

There's a spark in Graves' peripheral vision as they reach 7b. "Tagged her already," he hisses at Espinoza, who's standing closest.

"Sir?"

"The old lady. I tagged her for the Obliviators already."

"Yes, sir."

There's another spark, and Graves whirls, seeking the culprit, but at the sight of his Aurors' confused faces, his heart sinks.

It's a migraine aura.

"Isn't Goldstein back yet?" Graves growls, making a conscious effort to concentrate on the task at hand. He's no good to his people if he's worrying about a migraine. He reminds himself that there's nothing he can do about it at the moment. "Wilkinson, go make sure she's alright. The rest of you, let's get this thing done." Before he gets any worse.

Wilde and Espinoza step up to the door and knock, posing as No-Maj please men again. Graves and Abeling, standing to either side of the door, cast shield charms over their teammates, who have stowed their wands for the moment.

A filthy, dazed-looking No-Maj in a party dress answers the door. Confunded or cursed, Graves isn't sure. He stupefies her, and Wilde catches her and drags her out of the way as the others move into the apartment.

Two more No-Maj women are cleaning in the main room of the apartment and don't even look up as the Aurors enter and stupefy them. A third No-Maj, considerably cleaner than the others, is singing and dancing numbly in the bedroom. She's stupefied as well.

"All clear?" Graves calls after checking the kitchen.

"No sign of him," Wilde confirms, coming out of the bathroom.

The sparks have spread quickly, now burning away all around the edges of his vision, and Graves is having trouble focusing on the details of the apartment. It's not a large space. Johnston's team had it covered in under and hour with all manner of Apparation alarms and the like. Reilly couldn't have left the place without them knowing about it.

"Keep looking," he instructs. "We'd know if he'd left." He's there. Graves just needs to find him so he can get out of there. He forces his mind into action. "Revelio." There is no effect, but Graves hadn't really expected one. The spell only works to reveal other spells, and then only those that haven't been warded against it. It isn't designed to detect potions or invisibility cloaks.

Graves pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't think! And the sparks are getting larger; he's lost the edges of the room entirely. What he wouldn't do for a drink right now....

"Shields up," he calls, suddenly struck by inspiration. "Aguamenti." He directs the stream around the room, trying to watch for unusual patterns in the spray and cascade of the water, and relying on his teammates to catch anything he misses. He hears Espinoza and Abeling in other rooms imitating him.

The interplay of the running water and the shifting sparks is beginning to make him dizzy, but he's nearly got the kitchen cleared.

"Got 'im!" Wilde shouts from the living room, and Graves does not allow himself to sag in relief. "Transfigured himself into a coffee table!"

-

"Get him out of my sight," Graves snarls, shoving the restrained wizard at the two security wizards who are waiting back at MACUSA to receive him. He doesn't have time for the likes of wizarding supremacist Thomas Reilly. In other circumstances, Graves would stay and share in his team’s triumph, tell them they’ll let the guy stew in the cells for a day or so, let him just try to imagine how badly he's screwed up his life with this stunt. Today it's all he can do to pull together a congratulations to Wilde and something about how he'd do the paperwork on this one himself.

The aura is gone, and Graves knows he's panicking.

He knows he should calm down, but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier to do it. The sparks mean he's got a migraine coming, and he doesn't know what he should do. He could take his potion now, even though he doesn't hurt much at all, but that feels cowardly and weak.

This one might not even hurt that bad, in the grand scheme of things.  And if he can get by without the potion... Well, he's been warned about dependency and resistance by the apothecary on numerous occasions, as if he chokes down the foul concotions for fun.

 But if he waits until he's already hurting badly enough to really need the potion, it could be too late for it , and he'll have wasted a dose entirely, while still having to deal with the pain. His mother would tell him waiting is reckless and irresponsible.

His mother would tell him to take the dose.

Actually, his mother would probably tell him to "go home right this instant, Percival, take your potion, and go to sleep."

Not an option.

He has paperwork to do, and he owes Wilde a bottle of fire whiskey.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Graves yawns.

Then yawns again.

“...got loose in Times Square,” Wilde is saying.

Graves takes a swig of his coffee, and then yawns.

“In full view of the No-Maj’s?” Picquery asks, shooting an annoyed look his way as he yawns once more.

“Seventy-eight had to be confunded!” a mediwitch exclaims. Graves tries to yawn without opening his mouth. Another scowl from Picquery tells him he isn’t entirely successful. “And three of them were gored before Scamander could get the beast under control!”

“It’s not his fault,” Scamander is quick to interject, and for a second, Graves thinks he’s talking about the yawning, but no. Scamander’s first and only thought, as always, is for the beast. “You should’ve seen the way the muggles were swarming the poor creature! All of them grabbing for his horn or tugging at his beard...”

As the others around the table argue the relative culpability of the parties involved in a unicorn attack in Times Square, Graves’ yawns get more intense, until he can hardly breathe. He drains his coffee desperately, but it doesn’t help in the slightest.

“Are we boring you, Mr. Graves?”

“No, Madam President,” Graves answers shortly. He busies himself with his notes and tries not to panic at the tingle of an aura creeping around his left shoulder blade.

Migraine’s coming.

It’s only a question of when the pain will hit, now.

“What say you, Director?” Wilde asks. “Surely this beast is a danger to all of us? Just imagine if it had been captured by a No-Maj!”

Mercifully, the yawning has subsided somewhat, but Graves’ answer is met with nothing but blank looks. He frowns and repeats himself, but his colleagues only seem more bewildered.

Scamander speaks up, and all attention shifts back to the magizoologist, as he reiterates Graves’ point. “Of course we should be worried about the wizards behind this whole mess. Anyone who goes to the trouble of capturing a unicorn – which is a species native to the forests of northern Europe and cannot be found even in captivity in North America – doesn’t simply ‘lose’ it. It was released purposefully after great forethought and expense.”

That’s what Graves just said, isn’t it? That this fiasco couldn’t have been an accident, that malice aforethought meant the wizards who claimed to have “lost” the creature were the guilty party, instead of the creature itself? He checks his notes, certain he’d said just that, but when he looks down and his notes make no sense at all, he begins to suspect what’s happening.

He’s mortified.

He’s never had an attack of aphasia in a meeting like this, never before so many people. As if yawning like a fish on dry land wasn’t bad enough!

The meeting wraps up quickly after that, but that doesn’t spare Graves the sideways glances or the furtively scribbled notes back and forth. Though he can see quite clearly that Picquery would like a word, he dodges her and makes for his office.

He’s not running away, he assures himself, just going to take a potion from his stash and come up with a plausible story so he can stop distracting his people and get back to work.

Definitely not running away.

-

His stash is empty.

After staring incredulously for a moment at the empty drawer, he comes to his senses somewhat. He’s just put the vials somewhere silly. He feels all the way to the back of the drawer (undeniably empty), then ransacks the rest of his desk in barely controlled panic.

He’s got nothing.

He must have taken the last vial earlier in the week and forgotten to buy a new batch at the apothecary. Damn the fog in his brain!

Graves has just enough presence of mind left to cast a clumsy silencing charm over the whole room, before he starts firing off curses, smashing everything to smithereens. When the curses aren’t satisfying anymore, he throws his wand into a chair and goes in with his bare fists, breaking through the glass front of a cabinet and then hurling the contents in every direction.

Something touches his shoulder, and Graves whirls, fists still flying, but Scamander, agile from handling ornery creatures all the time, ducks the attack easily. He’s saying something, but with the silencing charm on the room, he can’t hear him, so Graves summons his wand and tries to end the enchantment.

The lamp on his desk transforms into a silver wine goblet.

The magizoologist, standing behind him, ends the enchantment successfully.

Furious and humiliated, Graves rounds on Scamander, ready for a fight, but there’s no pity in the redhead’s face, no amusement. He’s looking at him like he would a new creature, or perhaps an old creature who’s suddenly revealed a new trick. Simple, practical interest. “Aphasic aura,” he murmurs. “Any pain yet?”

And Scamander’s reaction is so far from what Graves is expecting that all the fight goes out of him at once. He slumps against his desk and shakes his head miserably, not willing to speak and further humiliate himself. Who knows what nonsense he was spewing at the meeting?

“But soon?” Scamander asks.

He seems so unbothered by the situation that Graves shrugs and answers before he can stop himself. “Never can visilgy the head head tell beetle vial emptying the norb –” He can tell by the look on the other wizard’s face that he’s done it again, and he heaves the wine glass across the room, where it crashes quite satisfyingly through another glass-fronted cabinet.

Scamander doesn’t even flinch.

He can’t explain the situation, can’t apologize for inconveniencing him, can’t tell him he’ll be fine on his own if he’ll just go away and pretend nothing happened. He is sure Scamander is going to laugh at him, or yell at him, or abandon him. He can barely keep the panic at bay. His head is starting to ache.

“Have you taken an abortive?”

Graves opens his mouth to answer, then snaps it shut again at once. The pain’s started, so he knows the aphasia has probably passed by this point, but he doesn’t trust his body right now. He shakes his head instead and shows Scamander his empty, bloody hands.

The younger wizard nods. “Alright then. Let’s see what we can do for you.” A few well-practiced flicks of his wand take care of the glass and blood on Graves’ knuckles, and one more brings his ever-present suitcase zooming across the room to land on the floor between them. “How’s your balance?” he asks as he kneels to pop open the latches and open the case.

Graves shrugs noncommittally. He’s had bigger problems this afternoon. Like his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence, or the crazed hippogriff currently trying to claw its way out of his left eye.

Scamander accepts his non-answer without further comment, merely climbing down into his ridiculous case and waving for Graves to follow.

In the tiny shed at the bottom of the case, Scamander bundles Graves, coat and all, into a heavy blanket and then seats him on the cot in the corner. Graves feels indignant for all of half a second, and then he just can’t care anymore. He’s exhausted and ashamed and in pain, and he just doesn’t care.

Scamander casts a muffliato charm and then putters around the shed, chopping and grinding and stirring at half volume. Graves, suddenly overwhelmed by the simple task of remaining upright, allows himself to topple sideways on the cot and pull the blanket over his head.

After a minute or two, the guilt (or something like it – he supposes guilt is close enough a term for whatever this feeling is) catches up with him, and Graves discovers that he can still care after all. He forces himself upright again because, damn it all, he’s tougher than this.

When he opens his eyes, Scamander is there with a cup of fizzing potion in one hand and a sugar cube in the other. “For the pain,” he murmurs, then raises the sugar cube with a self-conscious little smile. “And for the taste.” His face turns stern. “But you’ve got to drink the whole thing down first.”

Graves laughs at that, laughs until he chokes on a sob.

The potion isn’t as bad as his usual brew, but he still accepts the sugar cube when Scamander offers it in exchange for the empty cup. He feels silly, but it does help. He looks up to smile his thanks, and Scamander holds up a blindingly white roll of bandage.

Graves’ hands automatically reach for his face, searching for unnoticed injuries. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hurt himself without noticing during an attack. Then, cursing himself for an idiot, he remembers his hands and holds them out for Scamander’s inspection.

“This is for your eyes,” the magizoologist explains, pushing his already treated hands aside. “It will help. Trust me.” And, clearly not used to waiting for his patients to answer, he reaches in to smooth Graves’ hair back from his face.

Graves flinches away from the contact. His skin, and his face and scalp in particular, are so tender, even that faintest touch feels like he’s having his hair pulled out by the roots.

“Easy,” Scamander soothes, as if Graves were a nervous beast. “Let me help you.”

Graves drops the blanket when Scamander reaches in for his face again, but he manages to keep still otherwise. He’s tougher than this, he reminds himself over and over again as the bandage is carefully wrapped around his head, covering his eyes.

Stars burst in his vision and he fists his hands in Scamander’s outlandish blue coat when he draws the bandage tight, but Scamander remains composed. “It’s alright,” he soothes, pulling Graves into his chest and stroking down his back. “Just breathe for me. It will help, I promise. Just breathe.”

Graves does, and the pain eases. It’s still there, but a dull ebb and flow, instead of a tidal wave with every heartbeat. In spite of himself, Graves relaxes into Scamander’s embrace.

After a minute, the younger wizard pulls away and shushes Graves’ involuntary whine. “Sleep now,” he whispers, guiding him to lie down on the cool pillows and tucking the blanket back around him. “I’ll take care of everything else. Just sleep.”

Graves does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a 5+1, and I may still add more chapters in the middle, but for now, writing about (my) migraines is difficult, so I want to get to the comfort part. I currently have one more chapter in the works to follow this one.


End file.
